


Water

by April_Valentine



Series: The Elements [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Confusion, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Slash, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29236632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: Nicolò wakes to find he has survived a blow from his enemy again, but what exactly is going on?
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: The Elements [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146833
Comments: 8
Kudos: 96





	Water

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work in my new series, "The Elements" in which I'll explore Crusades era Yusuf and Nicolò as they are learning to know each other. The elements of Earth, Air, Fire and Water will trace the development of their relationship.

Nicolò opened his eyes as air rushed into his body. With a gasp, he returned to life, once again faced with the strange reality he now inhabited. Fight, feel the rush of pain and blood, the sensation of being run through, fall to his knees and collapse, lifeless, on the sand. 

Sometime later, wake, get up, and begin again.

And always, the feeling of that need to escape, to run, to flee… or better yet… to not wake up again. To die. Forever. Which would mean that when he next opened his eyes, it would be in heaven. All his sins would be forgiven, washed away and he would rise, holy and pure to live in paradise with his Lord.

No. That didn’t happen. It had been promised… 

But it wasn’t true.

He fought. He killed. He died, but he did not awake washed clean and pure.

Still, maybe it would happen someday. Maybe it would be today.

The sun was hurting his eyes. It was already climbing the sky. The clouds were parted, golden beams falling into his eyes. He wanted to rise, look around – maybe this was heaven? He could see the sun, hear the soft waves washing over his lower legs and feet… 

“There you are,” a voice broke into his hopes, Greek syllables penetrating the blankness in his head.

He brought a hand up, his arm feeling leaden, but his hand shaded his eyes and he finally focused. 

The voice didn’t belong to an angel. Or to Jesus. Or the Father.

It was the voice that belonged to his enemy, killer, foe forever. The one who killed Nicolò and who Nicolò killed. The last person he wanted to see. The only person he could see.

“You took a long time that time,” the voice said from close by. “I was…”

Was he going to say “worried”? Nicolò made to scoff, but it came out as a croak.

“Shhhh. Don’t try to talk yet.” A face with dark eyes bent over and stared into his own. “I ran you through… and so much blood…”

A water skin was lifted to his lips. From somewhere, a hand slid under his neck, lifting his head so he could drink.

A part of Nicolò tried to say he shouldn’t accept water from this enemy, this infidel. But his throat was parched and he still couldn’t think, so he sipped. The warm water flowed into his mouth and down his throat when he swallowed and his head began to clear.

The water skin shifted away. He wanted more, but again, the voice hushed him, his head was allowed to settle back down on the soft sand. 

“In a moment. Do not drink too quickly.”

The voice was soft, much nicer than when it screamed at him while its owner was rushing him with scimitar raised and hatred in his eyes. 

Strangely, the admonition was followed by a careful touch on his shoulder. 

“What…?” Nicolò could form words. He _could_ … it was just difficult right now. Instead he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. More rest. Perhaps that was what he needed.

He heard a slight splash of water then. There was a touch against his body, wet fingers trailing over his chest and belly. He winced, expecting pain, but all he really felt was wetness and coolness in the touch. 

Heavenly waters, cleansing his sins away?

He drew in a breath and managed to lift his upper body, braced on his elbows.

A glance down and he could see the enemy kneeling beside him, wet hands pouring water over Nicolò’s body. He was… amazingly, attempting to wash away the blood from Nicolò’s smooth skin. There was no sign of injury of course. It had healed the way their wounds always healed now, so why was this man trying to wash Nicolò clean?

“What are you doing?” he asked in a voice that was still rough and dis-used sounding.

The man stopped, looked at him, his face a study in confusion. 

“I… I was… there was so much blood – “

“You know when we kill each other there is always blood,” Nicolò pointed out.

“Yes, yes I suppose I do.” The man’s voice did not show the same annoyance as Nicolo’s did. It was careful but not harsh. The enemy closed his eyes and then turned to face Nicolò more squarely. “Your body, all the blood. On your clothes too.” He sat back on his haunches and nodded to the side.

Nicolò turned his head to look, and there he saw his cloak, rent through and lying wet but un-bloodied, his gambeson and tunic, similarly torn but soaked and having been washed, laid out beside him. 

His mail was of course, no where to be seen. When they had clashed the day before, it had been at dawn and Nicolò had not had time to put it on before his enemy was attacking him. Now, he lay in the sand at the water’s edge, his upper body bare down to his bries, his legs still wrapped in his chauses and hose. 

“You… washed…?”

“So much blood,” the enemy repeated. He turned away, gathered more water in his palms and then let it drizzle over Nicolò’s sternum, using his hands to clear the last of the blood on his torso away, fingers surprisingly gentle. He looked diffident but not ashamed of what he had done. “It is not…” he groped for a word in Greek and finally settled on, “good… to be covered in blood and sweat and dirt.”

“You touched me,” Nicolò gasped out.

“Too familiar, I know,” the other man replied, nodding. “But you were… away… so long. I thought… perhaps the wound was not healing this time.”

“No!” Nicolò cried, then in embarrassment, lowered his voice. “I have not been touched…” How to say what he meant? _In so long? Like this before?_ He swallowed, his face growing hot in the silence. _I have longed to be touched?_

The church did not care for touching. Not for a crying child to be comforted, not for hands to touch in friendship. And of course not out of desire for another or for soothing one’s own flesh. 

Nicolò had been alone so long, even after being taken in as an orphan, even after taking his holy vows. He was alone. Hands had delivered blows, but they had not often touched in friendship or comfort. He saw mothers hold their children, saw knights touch in friendship – was there something repugnant in Nicolò that made others stay clear from him?

“No, it felt… good.” He managed the words with only a slight shake to his voice. “To be clean,” he finished hurriedly, lest his enemy discover this vulnerability in him. He wiped a hand over his face, hoping to school his expression to neutrality, and shook his unkempt hair out of his eyes. 

The other man met his eyes, his gaze inscrutable as always, then returned to Nicolò’s belly. There was no more blood that Nicolò could see, but the man lifted one more handful of water and let it spill against his bared flesh, fingers running over the area again, as if to be sure. 

A curious frisson ran through Nicolò. The water was cool, but it made him feel warm inside. 

The silence between them seemed charged with unnamable emotion. 

The man who had killed him so many times had helped him. Had washed the blood from his clothes and from his body. _Touched_ him, not to seek his death or to maim, but to be sure Nicolò was well. 

Nicolò did not understand. They shared the same affliction – or the same miracle, perhaps, though he could not yet believe that not being able to die was really that. Still, the care that his enemy showed him belied all that Nicolò had been taught about the man’s people.

He felt he should reciprocate in some way. 

“And you?” he asked. “You are well again? Wounds healed?” Saying the words made him feel warm inside, the way the strange man’s touch had felt to him earlier. It would not be good if the other man were still in pain from a blow Nicolò had dealt him. That thought should have shocked him – yet he knew in his soul that he no longer wished for this man to die under his sword. 

Nicolò wished he had the words to ask his companion about this strange development. Still, he didn’t comprehend it himself yet, so he remained silent.

The other man nodded. “Shall we move on now?”

From what, Nicolò wanted to ask. _From the war?_ They had already gone several days journey away from the fighting. _From trying to kill each other?_ No –were they not still enemies, taught to hate each other? A moment ago, hadn’t Nicolò had the astounding thought that he no longer desired to kill this man? Or was the meaning more simple? To just ‘move on’ in their journey that seemingly had no destination or purpose? 

Nicolò was more confused than he had ever been.

So he asked his enemy. “Move on… from what?”

The other man opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. He shook his head, a small smile on his full lips. “I… do not know,” he admitted. “Do you?” he asked, the dark eyes that still seemed so bright looked directly into Nicolò’s.

Nicolò did not know either. He climbed to his feet, his body already dried by the sun, his flesh carrying only the echo of the other man’s touch. He stepped over to where his clothing was also nearly dry. And then an answer came to him.

He bent to pick up his tunic, shaking the sand from it. He stood at his full height and met his enemy’s gaze.

“Perhaps… from being strangers.” As if to mock him, his mind asked a question. _If not strangers, then what? Can we be something other than enemies?_ He pushed the strange thought out of his mind. “I am Nicolò.”

The other man stared into his eyes for a long moment as the silence stretched between them. Then, a single nod and he spoke.

“And I am Yusuf.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to Merricat.


End file.
